Hibernation

December 29, 2024

December 24, 2024 - the last time we saw the morning sun this week.

The days after are such glorious days. The lights fade, the noise recedes to the background, and for a few days - entirely too few - I can sink into a brief hibernation. As Anne Lammot said, “Almost everything will work again if you unplug it for a few minutes, including you.”

Taking time to watch the water slowly drip from the ice.

Hibernation for me looks like taking a few extra moments in the morning and evening to just snuggle under the warm blankets.

Taking time to play with the focus to see if the colors will appear like they did on spider webs last summer.

Hibernation looks like doing the slow tasks, the off-line tasks, like hemming two pairs of pants that have been needing to be hemmed for months.

Kingfisher never really slows down, but she almost landed two feet in front of me. At the last second, she saw me, I saw her, and she rattled off, possibly annoyed that I was in her spot.

Hibernation looks like putting things away, organizing, and clearing the back bedroom, reclaiming what had become a gift sorting and wrapping station.

I love organizing just as much as seeing the yellow flash hidden in the flicker’s wings.

Hibernation looks like reading a few pages of one of the many books I haven’t gotten to all year, and hoping that somehow I will create a new reading habit and actually read these real paper books this year.

If there’s any bird I’m emulating this week, it’s probably the heron. They know how to slow down.

Hibernation feels like sinking into somatic practices and letting my shoulders, hips, and back unwind.

Ah, if only I could regain the suppleness of a cedar waxwing.

Hibernation feels like taking the time for the long qigong practice, the one that lets me really drop into the flow and let my mind go quiet. It feels like finally getting to that tai chi class with the spinning motion that makes me feel like a kid again.

Watching cedar waxwings makes me feel like a kid too.

Hibernation looks like sampling the various teas I bought while I was buying gifts for other people to see which ones I might like before they stop selling them at the end of the year.

The bluebirds are busy sampling the year-end berries.

Hibernation looks like reconnecting to myself and all the little pieces of me that may have felt neglected over the last little while.

Reconnecting. (horned grebes)

Hibernation looks like coming home.

Eagle looks very much at home.

I dream of having a month or more to hibernate this way, to slow down and not rush forward again while still not having to worry about the finances. I do have to maintain some structure and rhythm, or my anxiety rises.

Rhythm will be easier when the sun appears in the morning again! (Sunrise, December 19, 2024)

I had planned to finish processing all the December photos still on my computer, but being off the computer has been too appealing so far. Even though I haven’t had the camera out for four days, I’m still behind. Isn’t it funny how I think a month is “behind”? There was a time when photos took much longer than this to make it through the process.

I’m not exactly lacking for content! There are roughly 10,000 unposted photos in my “ready for posting” folders. I’m guessing no one would mind an out-of-season photo, including my robin friend.

I had planned to write from the multiple topics I’ve been mulling for a few weeks, but for now they continue to live on post-it notes on my desk. My brain needs a break and for once, I am granting it the break it surely deserves.

Even juncos take a break once in a while.

The topics can wait. The new year can wait. This moment will pass all too quickly and I want to savor this little bit of quiet while I can.

Learning to sail quietly like a common goldeneye in a calm cove.

What does your post-holiday time look like? Do you miss the noise, do you relish the quiet, or does it just never really slow down (or speed up) in your life anyway?